


Snake Shop

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Families of Choice, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, Plot? No, Snakes, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-09-19
Packaged: 2020-02-10 03:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18651592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: In which Tom Riddle finds himself lost, alone, and hurt in the middle of Knockturn Alley, and stumbles upon a peculiar place called Harry's Snake Shop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Expanded from a headcanon meme [prompted](https://wynnefic.tumblr.com/post/178467969185/tomarry-time-travel-au-thaanks-and-love-your) by lacie4045-blog.
> 
> Updates every other blue moon.

Tom refused to regret turning down Dumbledore's offer of assistance. He didn't have much at all in this world, from the clothes on his back (donated to the orphanage) to the small pouch of coins in his pocket (donated to the school to fund those students who required assistance), but he had his pride, and he wouldn't go anywhere with a man who forced him to relinquish his stolen treasures. After Dumbledore's visit, Tom did as Dumbledore asked. He threw his small trophies into the rooms of the children he'd stolen the objects from. No personal apology. Tom did not yet know the limits of magic, but an apology would leave his lips through force of magic alone.

Diagon Alley was beautiful, magical, _expensive_. Tom passed the cheerful, colorful storefronts and only took one step into Flourish and Blotts when he read the sign on their display. Their first year books bundle would wipe out half his money pouch. He bought his wand first, yew and phoenix feather, parting with the seven galleons with great reluctance. A wand was necessary, and he was excited, his hands shaking slightly as he caressed it in his hands, but Tom was so infuriatingly poor. He had been so all his life, but the shame of it never stopped stinging.

"Take care of it," said the man who sold him the wand. "You'll do great things with it, I believe."

 _I'll do great things even without it,_ Tom thought, and said, "Thank you, sir."

It was that very wand that Tom clutched in his hand when he turned the corner into Knockturn Alley. He'd spent four hours in Diagon Alley, compiling a list of prices and eavesdropping on conversations. He'd also gotten himself one set of secondhand robes. He found browsing and listening to be easier when he could blend in with the crowd. There was nothing he could do about his height and his youth, but he could slide a serious, confident look on his face as he walked onto the street that witches warned their children away from.

The first few stores hardly differed from their Diagon Alley counterparts, but the further Tom walked, the more disquieting it became. Knockturn Alley was a gloomy, dirty street, narrower than Diagon and less crowded. An old woman with warts all over her face called out to him and Tom hurried into a shop to avoid her. She was gone when he exited five minutes later and now thoroughly educated on the quality of the store's flying carpets. There is a commotion outdoors instead. The woman had managed to offend someone else, someone more qualified with a wand than Tom currently was. Spell-light flashed through the street as Tom hurried to leave the scene.

He cried out as one of the spells hit him, but neither the woman nor the creepy man she was dueling with noticed.

Tom bit his lip to keep his tears inside, but he was hurt and alone and only eleven years old. There were no adults who would care if he didn't return tonight. Mrs. Cole would be glad to be rid of him and Dumbledore would hardly investigate if he didn't show up at Hogwarts. Tom was used to being alone, he _was_ , but sometimes... Sometimes he wished there were more to life than this.

He looked up in shock when moments later a young man stormed out of the shop whose windows Tom was leaning against.

"You just hit a child, you bastards!" the man yelled at them as he stormed forward. "Didn't you see him?"

They had not in fact seen him, but neither did they seem to care until their wands flew into the young man's hands and they were interrogated on which spells they had used. Tom watched with wide eyes as for the second time in his life he saw dramatic spellpower, this time in defense of himself rather than the burning of his belongings. He liked this time better. He liked it a lot. When his defender spun around, his green eyes flickered with something as he saw Tom's face. Tom made sure to look artfully pitiful, but it was almost as though the young man saw something else when he looked at Tom. His eyes bore through him, until a moment later his green eyes blinked and he focused on Tom.

"Ah, hell," the young man said as he helped Tom up. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "My name is Harry."

"Thank you, Harry," Tom replied, stepping into the shop after him. He was still clutching his arm and it hurt, but he nearly forgot about the pain as he looked around. There were snakes everywhere in shimmering containers and in the open. Snakes wrapped around the beams of the ceiling, snakes hidden in the leaves of a tree growing in the left corner, regular snakes and three-headed snakes and ones in all different colors. "I'm Tom. What is this place?"

"It's a snake shop," Harry said without really explaining. Instead he tugged Tom along to the back room, which had only half the number of snakes as the front room. The majority lounged on rocks under the glow of an artificial sun, only looking up at Tom for a moment before returning to their business.

"Do people really need so many snakes?" Tom asked, barely remembering to focus on the young man so that he didn't hiss his question.

"They're good companion animals, familiars, and wizards use snakes in all sorts of ingredients. Pull your sleeve up, please."

Tom did so. "You _kill_ them?"

He didn't know why it bothered him so much. Snakes were dumb animals for the most part, but still, some of Tom's better conversations had been with snakes. They were independent and noble; they didn't try to steal his breakfast or make demands on him. Much better than any rabbits or cats the other orphans took a liking to in the past.

"The former owner used to, but now that she's left town, I changed the rules on that," Harry said as he removed his wand from his pocket. "I'd never kill a snake if I could avoid it. I have anyone who buys from me swear a vow to not knowingly do harm to the snake." Harry crouched in front of Tom and pressed his wand against Tom's arm. "I'm going to clean the area first. It might sting a bit, but you need to tell me if it hurts."

"Okay." Tom watched with interest. Blue sparks circled his skin, twirling around his arm until they reached the gash on his upper arm. The whole area was cleaned of dirt and blood until all that remained was the broken skin.

Again, Harry said, "Tell me if this hurts too much. It should heal the wound completely, but if it doesn't, I have some healing powder somewhere around here that's good against scars." At Tom's agreement, he continued, and Tom's skin stitched closed before his eyes. He hadn't been worried about a scar and there hadn't been any need to, anyway; his skin was completely healed when Harry returned his wand to a back pocket.

"Amazing," Tom murmured as he tugged at his skin. It hurt a little, the skin new and raw, but nothing like it had earlier. "I didn't know magic could do this, too."

"It's not all flashy lights and fire," Harry agreed. He tugged Tom's sleeve down and warned him before conducting a cleaning spell, which removed Tom's blood from his shabby robes, but frowned at the tear across his sleeve. "I don't know any sewing spells, but I've got some thread lying around somewhere."

"You've already done so much," Tom demured even as he shrugged the robe off. If Harry was offering, then he would take it.

Harry gave a tiny huff of laughter as he took the robes from Tom. Underneath, Tom was wearing his best outfit, but he knew it screamed muggle to a proper wizard. Especially one from Knockturn Alley. He tensed, wondering how to explain, when Harry said, "It's alright. Do you want to sit with the snakes while I mend this?"

It was an order more than a question, but Tom didn't mind it so much coming from someone who had already helped so much. He did as Harry asked, taking a seat on an empty rock and hissing quietly in conversation with the snakes lounging there. He'd never had a whole conversation with a group of snakes before. The most he'd ever found were two snakes, and they hadn't liked each other much anyway. They'd only had found themselves in the same area by accident. These snakes were friends of a sort. Or at least very used to each other, idly hissing insults but not truly arguing. Tom quietly asked them about Harry, glancing back to make sure that Harry was busy with searching for the thread. He wondered if Harry had the talent, too. Dumbledore had said the ability to talk to snakes was rare in the wizarding world, but it made sense for someone who worked with snakes to be able to speak to them.

The snakes confirmed it, praising Harry for being intelligent enough to understand and speak to them. They told Tom that Harry had arrived a few months ago when the former owner still operated the shop. The snakes referred to her as cat-lady, although Tom couldn't get a proper reason for why. Ever since Harry replaced cat-lady, things had been much better. They've been given the option of being returned to the wild or to just stay here instead of being sold, though Harry was in the process of setting up a large snake habitat somewhere outside of London. The shop no longer smelled of death, which pleased the snakes greatly.

Tom knew full well that some people weren't what they seemed, but the longer he spoke with the snakes, the more he believed that Harry could be as kind as he seems. It was an odd thought.

Within half an hour, Tom was clothed again. Harry even resized Tom's robe once he noticed it was long in the arms. He flickered the lights off as he guided Tom to the front of the shop, and said, "I'll walk you out of Knockturn Alley."

Tom glanced back and frowned. That wasn't what he had expected. "You can't."

"Can't I?"

He wouldn't be maneuvered around like a naughty schoolboy. He hadn't done anything wrong. He was allowed to be in Knockturn Alley no matter how much some people didn't like it. "I need to buy my school things and Knockturn Alley is cheaper than Diagon Alley."

"Knockturn is dangerous. I know you don't fully understand the wizarding world yet, but you have to have learned that lesson earlier. There are wizards with no morals here, dark wizards, ones who wouldn't think anything of taking you away. There are vampires and werewolves and hags, who aren't dangerous as a whole, but the ones who visit Knockturn are rarely up to anything good."

Tom shivered. That was all well and good and terrifying, but he was on a mission. "I know. I'm staying anyway."

Harry's bright green eyes watched him seriously for a long moment before his mouth tugged up in a small, rueful smile. "I never listened much to adults when I was eleven, either. Alright, you can stay in Knockturn, but you'll have to stick with me the whole time. Do not leave my side or go off with any strangers, and listen to me."

"I'm not a baby," Tom grumbled. He didn't mention that Harry was nearly a stranger too. Harry was stupidly kind, so he could be forgiven. "I'll listen."

He waited as Harry stepped back inside to grab a brown leather-like pouch the size of a handbag, which he called a bottomless bag, and handed it to Tom. "For your supplies."

It was charity again. Tom accepted it anyway.

Tom knew not to go alone with strangers who showed too much interest in him. But Harry wasn't a creepy old man; he was barely older than Tom, a teenager rather than a proper man. He could almost fit into the group of teens that sometimes sat on the corner of his street and jeered at the orphans as they headed home from school. Almost, but not truly, because there was a hesitant sort of kindness in Harry's expression that Tom had rarely seen directed at him. He was familiar with the way some become obsequious when Tom was particularly charming, and he knew fear and anger when Tom forgot himself or grew tired of the charade of being friendly to those who were beneath him. His patience grew with his height, but those at the orphanage were more familiar with his true self than he'd like. They have known him too long to fall for his smiles.

Tom knew he had no excuse for the mess with Dumbledore, though. He'd panicked, plain and simple, at the thought of Mrs. Cole finally living up to her threats of sending him to an asylum. Once Dumbledore had revealed he was a wizard, Tom had been high on the euphoria of a sudden connection and the fact that he wouldn't have to flee the orphanage to avoid being placed in a straitjacket.

But he was Tom Riddle. He would make do on this pauper's satchel--in which there was more money than he had ever held in his life--and he would build a better life for himself with everything he had. And everything everyone around him had, of course.

Tom was not so proud that he wouldn't accept Harry supplementing Tom's money pouch with his own, which Harry did without even any prodding. It was baffling.

"Why are you doing all this?" Tom asked as they picked up Tom's potions ingredients from a tiny little shop on the corner of Knockturn and Nocturne. "It's not just because you're scared I might get kidnapped."

"No, it's not," Harry admitted. Instead of facing Tom, he picked what was labeled as a boomslang skin from the shelf and inspected its quality. "I didn't have my parents either when I first found myself in Diagon Alley. I just had help in the form of the kind man who delivered my Hogwarts letter. With him there, I wasn't so scared or lost. I'd like to carry his kindness forward if I can."

Tom wrinkled his nose. "That's so sentimental."

"There's nothing wrong with a little sentiment," Harry breezily replied.

Tom thought Harry had more than his fair share of sentiment, if he was this kind to every orphan he encountered. But maybe it evened out; Tom certainly had less than what people believed should be his share.

Once everything on the list was bought, Harry walked Tom back through Diagon Alley. He looked oddly wistful as they passed the menagerie. With a deep breath and an uncertain look, he asked, "Will your orphanage allow you to have a pet? It's customary for wizards to bring one to Hogwarts with them."

In truth, Tom didn't know. He wanted one. And he could maybe convince Mrs. Cole into allowing him to keep one. But the problem was money, as it so often was. He would need a self-sufficient pet in case he couldn't afford to feed it and unfortunately there was no convenient hunting ground in the middle of London. A cat or an owl would have to compete with city cats for mice.

Buying an owl would be pointless; Tom had no use for one. He certainly wasn't going to go around sending letters to Dumbledore or Mrs. Cole. A toad or cat didn't appeal to him.

But a snake... He would like a snake. "Could I choose from your snakes? And keep it with you until Hogwarts?"

"You don't want to keep it with you?"

"I can't afford it," Tom admitted. "We don't have much at the orphanage." He had been playing that card all day, but there was still something sad in Harry's eyes at those words. He was easily manipulated, this man, but Tom hadn't needed to lie.

"You can pick out whichever you'd like when you return," Harry promised and removed a knut from his robes. "Here. Buy some floo powder from Tom at the Leaky and you won't need to go through Knockturn to get to my shop." At Tom's expression, Harry chuckled and had the gall to pat his head. "Be good, Tom."

"Maybe," Tom allowed, and vanished through the moving bricks.

Muggle London was utterly dull in comparison. The noise of Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron faded quickly behind him. Tom trudged back to the orphanage, plans spinning in his head as he considered Harry's kindness. There was a limit to it, there had to be, but so far Tom had not reached it. He wondered just how far he could press. And, as he thought back on the many beautiful snakes in that shop, he dreamed of his future familiar.

It was an hour's walk to the orphanage. No one bothered him, nor noticed him, and his new belongings were safely hidden in Harry's bottomless bag. Tom slipped inside the back door of the orphanage at ten minutes to curfew and ignored the curious looks of his fellow orphans.

"You missed dinner," said Mrs. Cole as he passed her in the hallway. "Where were you?"

"Shopping for school supplies, ma'am." Tom held up his pouch. "Professor Dumbledore's school gave me a small allowance for pens and such."

She nodded, brow furrowing. "You already went shopping? He said that you can't start until September. That's nearly a year away."

"I like to be prepared," Tom replied.

It was enough for Mrs. Cole to leave him alone, though she gave him one last disapproving look before continuing on her evening rounds. Tom let himself into his room and let the rest of the world fall away. He wa one of the few to have a room of his own, due to the fact that he ran his past attempted roommates out of the room and nearly out of the orphanage, too. It suited him better to have the room to himself. He deposited the bottomless--and it was a fascination, the idea of bottomlessness--bag on his bed and left only to wash up in the boys' bathroom area, elbowing his way to a sink along with the other last-minute stragglers. Afterward, he lit a small candle and turned off his room's main light. The candle's light wouldn't be unnoticed, especially if the evening shift matron glanced up toward his window as she came in, but he was usually allowed to do as he pleased. The story around Billy Stubbs' rabbit was firmly entrenched in the minds of the orphans and their caretakers. It had gained a mythos of its own throughout the two years since it was found hanging from the rafters, the story told to each new orphan along with a warning. Dennis and Amy were living reminders of what Tom can do. Both orphans never breathed a word against Tom since that summer. And of course there was the matron that fled from employment here entirely, screaming that Tom was the devil's own child on her way out.

Tom had made no friends here. It was as it should be; he had always known himself to be better than the other children. He may have been younger than the adults, but he had no high estimation of their intelligence. This place was where knowledge came to die. It was a pitiful, shabby place, always low on funds and everything was always, _always_ secondhand.

Unable to resist the allure of his new belongings--they may be old to some, yet to Tom they are new and captivating--Tom opened the bottomless pouch. To his vision, there was nothing inside. Tom poked at it from the outside while looking in. It felt full to the touch. Not lumpy. More like there was a small balloon inside to fill the space and make it seem like the bag was full, even if he couldn't see it. When he put his hand through the opening, he could feel the spines of his books and the tip of his wand against his fingers.

Tom glanced toward the door. There was little chance of anyone coming in. Still, there was no lock, and it made him wary of pulling out anything truly magical. He could replace the covers of his magical books with regular ones--it filled him with glee to think of doing so with the Bible's cover, but the matrons would be more suspicious of him reading that book than him not--while the wand would have to stay inside. Having such a strange, ornate wooden stick around would bring too much scrutiny, no matter how comfortingly warm it was in his hand.

He waited until an hour after curfew, then got to work, sliding book covers on his new textbooks. He didn't have enough, so he stuck to the interesting ones first: Charms, Potions, and Defense Against the Dark Arts. They now appeared to be a collection of Grimm's fairy tales, a mathematics textbook, and an inane book about a young boy's summer camp adventures. Tom had been running out of books to borrow. At least these textbooks would mean that he wouldn't have to resort to finishing the book and finding out whether Terry was reunited with his runaway dog.

The robes came next. Tom checked each one for holes or other issues, marking down each spot to mend later. He was used to mending his own clothes and was quite good at it. He couldn't do much about his poverty or his lack of parents, but he could look as put-together as he possibly could. Afterward, he opened his case of potions supplies and made sure nothing got lost in the bottomless pit of his bag. Thankfully, all of his ingredients were dead, although they were unappealing to a one, all beetle eyes and slug guts and such. If Tom had gotten caught pulling eyes out from beetles, he would have been yelled at by the matrons, and now he was asked to purchase them from a store and would be using them in class. He pulled out the rest of his supplies.

It was silly, completely silly, but he needed proof that they were real. He had really, truly found Diagon Alley, bought magic items for a magic school, and talked to a dozen snakes.

The cauldron he left inside the bag. It had been enough of a problem getting it inside. He'd rather not deal with it until he unpacked at Hogwarts itself. Despite having pulled out all his supplies, Tom's hand brushed up against something else in the bag.

It was a blanket, Tom found when he pulled it out. Its color was a deep, dark red. The wool was soft to the touch, much softer than any blanket Tom had ever felt, and when he wrapped it around himself he felt utterly warm. There was snow falling outside his window and the winter chill seeped in despite its closed and locked latch, but beneath the blanket, Tom couldn't feel anything but warmth. He stayed up late reading his textbooks under candlelight. When his eyes could no longer keep up with the words, he blew out the candle and slid Harry's blanket under his own blankets, which were scratchy and nowhere near as warm.

He was used to feeling cold at night. This time, he already knew he wouldn't be cold as long as he held the blanket tightly in his sleep.

Tom curled up in his bed, finding a position that gave the illusion of comfort on his lumpy mattress, and didn't sleep yet.

Instead, he closed his eyes and considered his options.

*

In the morning, Tom woke to Mrs. Cole banging on his door and yelling, "Breakfast time!"

Tom hid his bag under his blanket and headed out. If he was not there on time, he wouldn't have breakfast, and he was hungry after missing dinner yesterday. He'd taken too long in Diagon Alley yesterday, staying long past the time he should have gone home. But it had all been so fascinating that Tom hadn't been able to pull himself away until Harry walked him to the barrier between the muggle and magical worlds. Now, Tom was firmly in the muggle world, stuck here until he could make his way to the Leaky Cauldron again. He should have asked if there was a faster way to get to Diagon Alley; the thought of another hour's trek didn't appeal to him, although he was excited to be there again.

It irked him, but much of his excitement was tied to seeing Harry again. Tom would use him, of course, but it was irritating to be excited, to want more. Every time he had wanted more than this orphanage, he had been disappointed. Even magic came with a price. The image of his wardrobe alight with fire at Dumbledore's word was burned into Tom's mind.

Breakfast was boring, tasteless.

Chores were even more so.

The orphanage wouldn't get any newer no matter how much scrubbing it got, and neither will the orphans' clothes gain more thread and color. Tom put up with it because the alternative was another series of lectures that he could already see on Mrs. Cole's tongue or her punishments. She feared him, but fear didn't stop her from trying to put him on what she considered the right path.

Tom knew his path. It wasn't _this_.

He shined his shoes again on her orders, quietly seething. Once he was done, he headed to his room, where he could finally close the door and pull out his new books with the deceptive covers.

Only his door opened again.

Tom looked up. It was John, another orphan, who squeezed himself though the door, barely opening it and glancing back to make sure he wasn't seen.

"We're playing hide and seek," John said, shutting the door behind himself. He was bigger than Tom and two years older, which gave him the courage to say, "I'm hiding here." It did not give him wisdom, neither did age provide him with something to do other than a children's game. "Deal with it, Riddle."

"I don't have to," Tom replied. He glared, but John was too dumb to understand what a bad idea it was to anger him. He wished, badly, that there were locks on the doors. The only doors in the orphanage that locked were Mrs. Cole's office, the kitchen, and the cellar, which locked from the outside and was used mostly for punishment. He shut his book with a thwacking sound and stood up, chin raised but still not tall enough to make anyone cower from his physical stature alone. "I don't want you here."

He reached for the door, but John was faster, not wanting to get caught. As though the game mattered more than Tom's privacy. John's hand collided with Tom's wrist, pressing it harshly against the door. Tom bit his lip hard and glared. It was not a game anymore, and it wasn't ever fun.

"Don't be such a baby," John said, though he didn't let go of Tom's wrist. "We're just playing."

Tom had enough. 

"Get out," he said, pushing power into his voice. Magic, now that he knew what it was. Magic, might, anything that would get John to leave.

"Fine," John replied. His voice was wooden, his eyes unfocused. He pulled open the door and was immediately caught by his friends, who asked him what was wrong. _Nothing,_ John said to them, and Tom leaned against his closed door and stared up at the ceiling.

There was a chance that John or John's friends would tattle to Mrs. Cole and claim that Tom did something freakish again. As usual, Mrs. Cole would have no proof, and as usual, Tom would be punished anyway. He won't have Harry's blanket if he was forced to spend the night in the cellar. Neither will the voice work on Mrs. Cole. It always backfired, working for a little while until she blinked back to awareness and realized that for some reason she had gifted Tom her silver pen or allowed him a privilege the other children don't get. His wrist was red. It aches deeply--John must have grabbed him harder than Tom realized--but there was no point in going to Mrs. Cole.

Tom poked at his reddened skin, ignoring the pain. It should bruise by tomorrow.

He still hadn't decided, but it would be good to have some props ready no matter which way he decided.

Tom spent the rest of the day organizing his books, only leaving his room when his body required him to. He didn't dare to skip a meal--there was little enough food allotted to them anyway--but he ate quickly, pulled back to his books with an almost magical tie. Once in his room, he touched his wand frequently, unable to help himself. Each time, he remembered the sparks that shot from its tip in Ollivander's shop. This wand chose him. It marked him as magical. He was a member of the wizarding world no matter where he lived, no matter how little he knew. Diagon Alley, Hogwarts, even Knockturn Allley, those were _his_ places, not Wool's Orphanage. Curled up under his blanket with a book in his hands, Tom was transported to faraway places with names he would have to listen for someone else to say first, just to make sure he was pronouncing them correctly.

He remembered Dumbledore saying Hogwarts, so he knew he has that one right. Dumbledore and Harry said it in different ways, even if the pronunciation was the same. Dumbledore with pride, Harry with what might almost be called nostalgia. Harry was kind of strange, Tom thought, but Harry wasn't cruel. Tom wasn't in danger of Harry lighting Tom's cupboard on fire.

Tom turned over, trying to find a comfortable spot on his mattress. It was impossible. The mattress had been barely bearable three years ago. Now, it was old and flat except for the hard lumps. It was probably older than Tom himself and smelled of dust. A snake might find the mattress comfortable, although Tom refused to reconsider the matter. What he'd said to Harry held true: he couldn't properly care for one of Harry's beautiful snakes here. It stung, like so much did when Tom was faced again and again with his circumstances.

There was no way out but through.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paintings inspiration: Bill Flowers, The Snake Artist.

The next day, Tom suffered through school only because his focus was on what he would do after. Class dragged on, more boring than it had been a week ago, before he'd known of the existence of the wizarding world. Now that he knew where he should be, the place where he was became excruciating.

Still, his answers to the teachers' questions were correct, and his demeanor gave every impression that he was interested in the subject matter. To his classmates' consternation, and some of the teachers' as well, he was an excellent student. No matter who his parents were—unmarried, shameful, poor, _stupid_ are the best the rumors get—he was no dullard. Afterward, he headed not to the orphanage but to the Leaky Cauldron and beyond. His stomach rumbled quietly; Tom ignored it. This was more important.

He'd stashed the bottomless bag in his school bag that morning. Once he was inside the Cauldron, he put his robes on over his school bag—may as well deter thieves who would be stupid enough to steal the worthless schoolbooks in his bag—and headed in the direction of Knockturn Alley. For a moment, he considered asking Tom the bartender about what floo powder did and how he could use it to get to Harry's shop, but he would rather keep the money Harry gave him. He had precious little of his own.

Tom was more careful of Knockturn Alley on his second trip. He understood better what could happen here—what very nearly did. Harry had been very clear on that front.

Tom made it to Harry's shop without any trouble. There was a wooden sign above the shop, curved in a particularly inept approximation of a snake. The sign read _Harry's Snake Shop_ , with Harry's name noticeably carved over a different one. There was no bell above the door. Tom shivered from the sudden change of temperature in the shop. It was so warm inside, so much better than the January temperatures outdoors. Within moments, Tom's fingers regained feeling from the long trek in the cold. He slid his wand back in the pocket of his robes.

The front of the shop was a winding path of various open cages, nests, potted plants and trees, and even a bird or two that fluttered through the store. The ceiling was taller than it had any right to be from the outside, but Tom now knew that magical architecture was not supposed to make sense. Tom stepped over three—no, four—snakes on his way to the counter. They greeted him amiably, the sound of hissing a melody to his ears.

It was nice here. It was really nice here.

After two days away, Tom had missed it. And not only because this was the warmest he had been outside of when he was wrapped in Harry's blanket.

There was no one at the counter. Tom huffed, knowing he shouldn't be surprised. Harry had been quick to abandon his shop for him the other day and the snakes made no mention of another person working here. To a nearby snake, Tom hissed, "Is he here?"

"In the back," called out Harry's voice. Tom wound his way behind the counter, the way familiar to him. This was where Harry had healed him and fixed his shirt. There was a desk all the way in the back, behind boxes and cages and toys and a mess of all sorts of things, and Harry sat at the desk. He seemed distracted, looking up at Tom from the mess of papers on the desk. A snake nosed through one of the piles. "Hello, Tom."

"Good afternoon, Harry," Tom said, and then made sure to add, "Thank you for your help last time I was here."

He needed Harry to like him. He was rather good at making people like him, though only for short periods of time, and not when it came to people who knew him since early childhood. Partly because he hadn't learned how, partly because he hadn't learned the importance of it. He knew it now. Oh, how he knew it now, looking at Harry, who even without robes looked more in place in the magical world than Tom. It was in the easy way he used a quill, the way he wrote on parchment without remarking on its difference to paper, the way he was comfortable when surrounded by snakes with more heads than they should have.

Tom was jealous. He would bide his time; one day, he would be all of these things, and he wouldn't be stuck in a shop while he did so. He was going to be _great_.

"Are you hungry?" Harry asked, setting aside his paperwork. He placed the parchment on top of the snake on the desk, which hissed its displeasure and began to slither away. "I have some soup upstairs. It's warm."

Tom wondered if he looked like he still needed warming up. Undoubtedly, an hour's walk in early January had left its mark on him, with his skin winter-pale except for his red cheeks.

"You look too thin," Harry said, and oh, that was what he'd meant. Harry shook his head at himself, fumbling with the papers on the desk for a moment. "I always had people say that to me, growing up. Never knew what they meant until now. Don't they feed you at the orphanage?"

Tom shrugged, trying to find balance between inducing Harry's pity and not wanting to trample over his own pride. "Not as well as they should. Will Hogwarts be better?"

"Hogwarts will be _heavenly_." Harry motioned Tom to join him as he made his way past the clutter and the snakes. "The Great Hall serves three meals a day, as long as you get up in time for breakfast, and don't study through lunch and dinner. You can eat all the food you'd like. Before my first day at Hogwarts, I'd never seen so much food in one place. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, lamp and pork, Yorkshire pudding, roasted vegetables, all washed down with pumpkin juice. Even the regular days have plates upon plates of food."

Tom's stomach rumbled at the thought. It was good that he would be sating his hunger soon; he couldn't imagine carrying that description in his head on the long walk to the orphanage, where he would be treated to a meager, meat-less plate. "And I won't have to pay for it?"

Harry shook his head. "It's part of the school's tuition, which is waived if the student's family can't pay it."

"That's nice of them," Tom said. "Why would they do that?"

"You're a suspicious kid, you know that?"

"Suspicion means I have _intelligence_."

They turned a corner, where an out of the way staircase led them upstairs. It creaked as they made their way up.

Harry huffed, looking back at Tom, but his lips turned up in a partial smile. "I've never thought about it. I suppose it's because magical education is considered to be a right for those who have the power. Hogwarts is the one to seek out muggleborns; the ministry deals with cases of muggleborns performing major feats of accidental magic, but they don't do more than obliviate whoever's necessary and give the muggleborn and their parents a stern talking-to. It's Hogwarts that really brings them into the magical world, providing everyone with education and a way into this world for good."

"Major feats?"

"Something that could reveal the magical world to the muggle one."

"I've done magic at the orphanage," Tom said, thinking back. "No one ever came. I assumed I was the only one." The thought of it was offensive; had nothing he'd done been truly major? Had his magic, the one thing he'd prided himself in as a penniless orphan, not been great but below even ordinary for other magical youths?

"Oh. _Oh_. Um, the department isn't very developed yet. It's likely that you just got skipped over under the assumption that your magic didn't cause any wide-scale panic. If no one made a fuss, the office may not have realized you performed any magic at all."

Tom's worries about not being exemplary, and thus not deserving of a personal ministry visit, faded quickly as they entered Harry's flat above the snake shop. The door to Harry's flat wasn't locked. Tom despaired of the lack of security in the shop, although he supposed he could give Harry the credit that there may be magical security. Secret, hidden, magical security, because there was no flash of lights or burst of magic as they entered the flat.

It looked like a cross between an antique shop and a junkyard.

"You have... a unique taste in furnishings," Tom said, aiming for a compliment. He couldn't quite manage his tone to reach complimentary levels.

He wondered if all wizards hoarded things or if it was just Harry. That Dumbledore with his strange clothes and mannerisms seemed to be the type as well. One would never have to search for a place to sit in the flat; there were armchairs and chairs and even a corner where three chairs were precariously stacked one on top of another. There were cabinets stuffed with china and knicknacks, several carpets rolled up and resting precariously against furniture, and at least eight paintings within Tom's immediate line of sight, featuring various famous scenes in which the people had been replaced by snakes. Most of the paintings were half-hidden behind furniture and clutter, but Tom's gaze fell on one in which a snake wore a bonnet and curled around a pitchfork.

"Don't worry, most of this stuff isn't mine. It was Roberta's before she left the place to me to take care of. I should put all of it into storage, if only to be able to walk across the room easily, but I'd rather work with the snakes downstairs than deal with this." Looking strangely happy, Harry added, "I've always liked a bit of clutter. Not this much, of course."

"Roberta is the one the snakes spoke of," Tom mused. "The cat lady, they call her. They like you better than they did her."

"They should—I'm a pushover," Harry said, amused. "I let them lay on their heated rocks and boss me around all day. This way."

He motioned toward the back of the living room, where a kitchen area was hidden behind a giant tapestry of snakes wearing medieval armor. A window shined light into the kitchen, though the light was perhaps brighter than Tom would have expected, given that the window was supposed to face another building. It was clear that the kitchen was Harry's domain, no matter what whose flat it originally was.

The clutter of the living room did not reach here; or, as Tom assumed, it had been meticulously cleaned out by Harry to make room for a neatly organized spice rack, cupboards that properly shut instead of overflowing as the ones in the other room do, and the flat areas clean of everything except for a recently used cutting board and some cooking utensils.

On the stove-top, a large steel soup pot was kept warm by flickers of green light. Harry rejected Tom's offer to help, saying it would be the work of seconds. Tom took a seat at the small kitchen table and watched Harry pour them each a bowl of soup and retrieve a few pieces of bread from the bread box.

Harry set one bowl in front of Tom and placed the plate of bread next to it. "Dig in."

For himself, Harry summoned a chair from the living room, and began to eat.

Tom took small sips first, growing used to the heat of the soup as it warmed him all over. It was nothing like the pea soup Mrs. Cole made; this one was heavy and filling, with enough ham to have a piece of meat for every spoonful, and spices that only added to the taste. It was _good_. Tom blinked away the sudden strangeness in his eyes, swallowing down the way that Harry's flat and shop was warm, and nice, and so pleasant to be in. He didn't want to leave. Not because staying would further his plans, but because it was _nice_ here. Tom reminded himself that eventually, the other shoe would drop.

His sleeve slipped as he raised the spoon to his lips, revealing the bruise that John had left. It was quite a nice one, dark and heavy, easily noticed. Harry's gaze lingered on it for a moment, but he didn't interrupt Tom's meal.

When Tom complimented the soup, Harry waved it away with some false modesty, saying something about getting the recipe from a house elf. Despite Tom's readings, he was only somewhat aware of what a house elf was. Still, that wasn't the question that was on his mind.

"How did you come to be here?" Tom asked, lowering his spoon. "Where did Roberta go?"

Harry took a piece of bread from the bread bowl and dipped it in the soup, looking thoughtful as he chewed. Tom followed his example until Harry spoke again, stealing Tom's attention.

"I started working here about eight months or so ago. I'm very grateful to Roberta. I came here without a knut to my name and had gone up and down Diagon and Knockturn, asking for work. I couldn't find any. No references, no funds to go more than a few days without needing to do something drastic. When I stepped into the shop, I didn't see the owner. Only all these snakes in cages and terrariums. While I waited for her to appear, I chatted with them. She hired me on the spot."

"That was all it took?"

"She said that either I was a gift from Merlin himself, or that I would run screaming when one of the snakes tried to eat me for not being a true speaker. About a month later, she had some... trouble with the law. Gave me the keys to the shop, told me to look after the place while she was gone, and that it might be a few years. She took her five cats with her on the lam. The aurors never did catch up with her. And then seven months later, this kid nearly bled out on my doorstep."

"That's _not_ what happened. I would have been fine." Tom pursed his lips, and added, "I can take care of myself, you know."

"I know," Harry said, and Tom forgave him because he sounded sincere. "You don't need me, nor do you know me. But if you do need some help—even if you don't want to talk about it—then you know where to find me." Something strange crossed Harry's expression, there and gone in the blink of an eye, replaced quickly with determination.

Tom wondered if he reminded Harry of someone. Another boy Harry had once known, or perhaps Harry himself as a boy. He remembered Harry's comment about the person who had helped him around Diagon Alley when Harry was Tom's age and wondered if he should model himself after Harry. It would be difficult; Tom was neither open nor kind. But he did like snakes and he had determination in spades.

"Thank you, Harry." Tom took another sip of his soup, think Harry's words over. It was too soon to ask what he knew he wanted to ask. A week, at least, would be useful in finding out how deep the well of Harry's kindness ran, and doing his best to find if there was anything polluting the water. Instead, he asked, "What kind of accidental magic did you do when you were young?"

He hesitated momentarily over the word _young_ because Harry wasn't _old_. Not even close. But he wasn't Tom's age, either, and Tom wouldn't want to offend. Not when he had plans that required Harry's cooperation.

"I turned a teacher's wig blue," Harry said with a shake of his head. "I thought there was something wrong with the dye. Same goes for when my most hated clothes shrunk to the size of dolls' clothes in the washer. And I apparated, once. That is, I teleported from the sidewalk to the roof of my school."

"What did you think happened then?"

"I thought the wind was strong that day." Harry ducked his head, grinning. "I wasn't an observant kid."

"No, you weren't." That wasn't particularly polite, but Tom blamed it on his shock at someone who had the same talents that Tom did, believing himself to be ordinary. That the coincidences that occurred around him had nothing to do with the power inside him. It must be a terrible way to live, in denial of one's power and self. "I always knew I was special. _Always_."

"What magic have you been able to do?" Harry asked. Without prompting, he got up to pour Tom another helping of soup.

Tom took the bowl gladly. "I can speak to snakes, as you saw." As someone with the same talent, he knew Harry wouldn't be particularly impressed, and he was right. Harry only nodded. "Is this a rare talent?"

"I've never met someone else who could speak to snakes, other than me and you," Harry agreed.

For the first time since learning of the magical world, Tom felt the pride of being special. Sure, he held this place of pride with Harry, who did not seem to value it as much as Tom, but it was no matter. "I can also make things move without touching them, and make my clothes last longer than the other children's, and make hot water without heating it on a stove or under fire."

 _I can make people do things they don't want to do. I can make them hurt,_ Tom thought, and kept that thought pressed firmly to his chest. There was no need to scare Harry off. He had learned his lesson thoroughly. It smarted, his first meeting with Dumbledore, but he had learned.

"You'll learn even more when you start Hogwarts. Something tells me you'll be at the top of your class."

Harry was, of course, a stranger who knew little of Tom's intellect or outstanding academic record. It was unnecessary, the flush of pride that came from Harry's statement. "I will be. Anything less would be beneath me."

"I'm sure," Harry said, smiling slightly.

Once their bowls were empty, Harry cleared the table. Once the dishes were inside the sink, it began to clean them immediately. Sponges and soap bubbles worked in tandem with a stream of water.

"Can I see your wrist?" Harry's question was determinedly gentle.

Tom nodded, pulling up his robe and letting Harry inspect the bruise before healing it. Tom watched the sink do its work while Harry worked on his arm.

"What happened here?"

Tom opened his mouth to speak. "Nothing. Just roughhousing. I'm _fine_."

He grit his teeth in irritation. At himself, not at Harry, who was only asking the expected questions. Tom had a sob story about his life at the orphanage prepared, but it was stuck somewhere behind his teeth. He hated this. It was awful, knowing what he should say in order for Harry to pity him and offer him more kindness, but not wanting to lower himself to receiving pity.

"You don't seem like the type for roughhousing."

"I'm not," Tom said, scowling at the memory as it threatened to force itself into Harry's cluttered, cozy flat. It wasn't the first time it had happened, nor was it the worst; Tom couldn't protect himself forever with magic. When he was older, his magic would no doubt have no limits, and he would be a great wizard. For now, he bruised as easily as the next orphan with no one in his corner.

Tom pulled his arm out of Harry's gentle grasp as soon as the spell was over. He poked at his wrist. The skin was overly warm, but healed. The warmth faded within seconds until his arm was at its natural temperature.

"Did you come here straight from school?"

"Yes."

"Then how about this. You'll finish your homework—I think there's a desk or three somewhere here—and then you'll come down to talk to the snakes and see any of them might fit as your familiar. Your grades shouldn't suffer."

"Once summer comes, I will be done with that school forever," Tom argued. "Whether my grades suffer won't matter." But he did enjoy the thought of staying behind, so he said, "But I'd like that. I have my books in my school bag."

Harry moved a few things around, nearly being knocked over by a bookshelf in the process, to clear off a desk for Tom. It was a grand, antique wooden desk from at least a century ago. Well-cared for despite its disuse, or perhaps it was only some kind of magic that gave that impression. His books and worn notebooks looked shabby atop the desk. Even his pen, stolen from a teacher who had since left the school, did not give the impression of grandness.

Tom busied himself with looking busy.

Once the door closed behind Harry, he waited a few minutes before looking inside the desk. A few broken quills and ink-stained pieces of parchment, some notes about the care and feeding of kneazles. He inspected the rest of the room, slowly going around until he had looked into everything within reach. Once finished, he did the same with the kitchen, then ventured into the rest of the flat. There was a one bedroom with the same attention to clutter as the living room. It seemed to be unused. There was a smaller bedroom with few personal belongings, and various boxes and furniture shoved to the side. Tom looked for photographs or personal papers, but found none. He wished Harry's belongings were more forthcoming. He knew more about the previous owner of the flat than about Harry. He should have asked more about how Harry ended up here, but something told him that Harry would not divulge that information easily.

There was another room that had evidently been property of Roberta's cats. Tom closed the door, uninterested in peering through the various cat toys and beds.

All in all, it wasn't a bad place, if the junk could be sold or trashed. There was enough room for two people.

Before heading downstairs, Tom pocketed a small snake figurine from one of the display cases in the living room. It was angled away from the path through the room. Harry wouldn't miss it. He packed it in his school bag, taking care to pack it in a way that would keep it from breaking.

He spent two hours in Harry's shop, meeting all the snakes and volunteering to clean rocks, move light sources, and otherwise making himself useful. Most of the snakes were intelligent and fascinating, but Tom didn't feel a particular pull to any one of them. He needed to choose carefully. But most importantly, he couldn't choose soon.

"I haven't chosen my snake," Tom said as afternoon became evening and Harry began closing up the shop.

Harry looked back at him, turning over the open sign by flippant gesture alone. "It's alright. You can come back and choose it later."

"I'll be back tomorrow."

And Harry, to Tom's approval, did not disagree. 

Despite again arriving at the orphanage after dinner was over, Tom's stomach was full, and a spell for warmth lingered on him halfway through the evening. Tom continued to return to the snake shop every day for the next week. He talked and listened, worked with Harry on his various projects, and took note of how he could be helpful. After nearly two weeks of knowing Harry, he knew that in the grand scheme of things, he still knew very little of Harry. He knew the broad strokes of his character, not the finer details and the defects. Still, he knew that Harry lived a quiet, simple life, and he had neither a temper nor an alcohol problem, nor any other issues that Tom could discern, except for a penchant for solitude, which suited Tom. This was enough for what Tom had planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tom: 50 step plan to get this stranger to decide he wants to adopt me
> 
> Harry, 1 second after meeting Tom: wow I guess I'm a parent now

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'm also on [tumblr](https://wynnefic.tumblr.com/).


End file.
